Two One-Act Plays
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Starring the Winchester Brothers and a blue-eyed stranger. [Boy King Sam/Godstiel AU]
1. The Comedy

**Story Notes: As the title suggests, this fic is composed of two connected but independent stories which can be read separately. They are both AU after season three and have the same premise. The first is a comedy, the second, a tragedy. Neither are part of my ongoing Boy King series. **

**Chapter Notes: Title comes from the song I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters.**

**Chapter Warnings: language, irreverence.**

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You'd Probably Go to Heaven

Summary: The way Dean sees it, there are two kind of comedies: good ones, and ones that pretend to be comedies and then get all emotional.

.

They didn't know who he was. They didn't know _what_ he was. No one did. (Or, at least, no one who would talk to them about it, which meant all of Heaven could have been in the loop and they'd still be out of it.) He had turned up after Sam tossed Michael and Raphael into the Pit with their brother. He looked human, or at least could when he wanted to. He had really blue eyes and a tan trench coat and a tie which was always backwards.

He claimed to be God.

Sam said that he wasn't, and Dean believed him. Still, nameless trench coat had a few points of evidence in his favor. He was impossibly powerful, for one. He had little to no sense of humor. He was incredibly sanctimonious.

Honestly, Dean didn't know how they hadn't been smited yet. Smote? Smitten? Whatever. The point was, they definitely should have been carbon silhouettes on the wall of some cheap-ass motel by now, what with Sam being the King of Hell and everything. Yet, somehow, they weren't. Maybe it was some yin and yang, universal balance thing: no good without evil. Maybe it was just that Sam was more or less un-smiteable.

At this point, Dean didn't really care about the hows and whys of the two supernatural beings who flanked him. He just wanted both of them to _shut up already. _

"Clearly, leading people to such institutions should not be of the same consequence."

"Right," Sam agreed easily. "They should be worth more, because their practices are actually closer to the biblical teachings."

Dean really, really wished he trusted these two enough to leave them alone together. They had been arguing about their stupid point system for the past half hour, and all because Sam had to go and claim that more people went to church for fear of Hell than love of Heaven. Now they were neck-deep in negotiations about the rules of their fucking pissing contest, with Sam scribbling notes on the back of a porn magazine the last patron left behind and arguing like the almost-lawyer he was.

At the moment, the subject of discussion was liberal protestant churches.

"Their doctrines are vague to the point of self-evident truths. Essentially, their only commands are that humans be kind to one another and praise God."

"Aren't those the only commands of the Bible, essentially?" Sam challenged. "'_Love the Lord with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength. And the second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself._'"

Trench Coat, like always when Sam quoted scripture, looked constipated and a little turned on.

Dean cursed his life.

.

The rules ended up being so complicated that Trench Coat appointed one of his angels to keep track.

"I want to meet him," said Sam immediately.

Trench Coat raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on the blatant display of distrust. Instead, he nodded, tilted his head to the side, and an angel appeared in a flutter of wings. He was small and young-looking, wearing a stupid uniform from Weiner Hut.

His eyes flickered from Trench Coat to Sam and back again, and he went the shade of gas-station milk. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and did a fairly good impression of a mouse caught between a cobra and a tiger.

"Take it easy, kid," said Dean, taking pity. "No one's gonna hurt you. We just wanna make sure that the Good Lord Almighty here is shooting straight."

"What's your name?" Sam inquired kindly, shifting his expression and posture to look as nonthreatening as possible. He had always been good at that, despite his height, and Dean could never figure out if he did it consciously or not.

"S-Samandriel," the angle stuttered out. He swallowed and added, "Sir," with a sideways glance at Trench Coat, who gave a tiny nod of assent.

"Okay, Samandriel," said Sam evenly. "Like my brother said, I just want to make sure everything's in order. Could you repeat the rules back to me, please? Whenever you're ready."

Samandriel licked his lips, and nervously, haltingly, began to speak.

.

"This is wrong on so many levels."

Dean glared at the large, whitewashed suburban house as if it was its fault that his brother had some sort of weird unresolved sexual tension thing going on with a guy claiming to be God.

"You didn't have to come."

Dean refused to dignify that with a response, and after a moment Sam rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car, grabbing his brand new clipboard as he went.

"I'll only be a minute."

Dean watched his long legs (khaki-clad, for authenticity, and let it never be said that Sam did anything halfway) carry him up the path to the front door. He was close enough that he could see the frown on the face of the graying, well-dressed white guy who opened the door. He could also see the way the guy tried to close the door on Sam, and he could hear the _bang _when Sam's hand shot out to stop him.

He couldn't see Sam's face, but given the look of terror on well-dressed-white-guy's face, he'd be willing to bet money that his brother's ingratiating smile had turned demented, his hazel eyes snapped to black. The kid was getting really, really good at that part, which was one of the reasons Dean hadn't joined him up at the door (besides the fact that this whole thing was _really fucking stupid_). He'd seen enough crazy in his brother's face for one lifetime, thank you very much.

He tapped a drum solo on the steering wheel.

"Alright," said Sam as he slid back into the passenger seat. "Just one more thing."

He pulled out his cell phone as Dean pulled away. When he spoke, it was with the southern drawl he sometimes put on when he needed to sound particularly trustworthy.

"Hello, Father McKinney? Hi Father. Yeah, I was just wonderin' if y'all had anyone in the church who can make housecalls. . . . I was thinkin' somethin' more sorta preacher-like, if ya got somethin' like that. See, I've got this friend, an' he's not what you'd call a believer. . . . 'Course, 'course, I hear ya, Father, but see, he's been actin' sorta strange lately, see, an' I really feel the Lord is callin' on me to help him out, but nothin' outa my mouth is gonna get in his ears, if ya know what I'm sayin'. . . . Really? Thank you, Father. Thank you kindly. Y'all are doin' something real good."

Sam hung up the phone with a self-satisfied expression.

"The Lord is calling you to help this guy out, huh, Sammy? Would that be actual God, or the one who can't figure out how to wear a tie?"

"Bite me."

When Trench Coat realized that Sam had converted a prominent officer of the American Atheists to Catholicism, the look he gave him could have melted lead. It was the first time in Dean's life he had spontaneously thought the word 'smolder.' He immediately wanted the rinse his mind out with bleach.

Sam smirked, and Trench Coat's eyes fell to his mouth. Unconsciously, the Not-God licked his lips.

Now Dean wanted to take a shower in bleach.

.

Things were okay. As long as Sam was at odds with Heaven, however fucking stupid the rivalry was, none of the demons grumbled too much. And as long as none of the demons grumbled too much, Sam didn't feel the need to smite anyone. And as long as Sam didn't feel the need to smite anyone, he also didn't feel the need to put the Colt between his teeth and pull the trigger.

So, yeah. Things were okay. Things were completely, Planters-factory-explosion _nuts_, but they were okay.

Until they weren't.

.

Dean awoke to the sound of Sam cursing viciously.

"Dude, what?" Dean grumbled, pushing himself upright groggily. "Our Lord and Savior manage to convert the Dalai Lama or something?"

Sam snapped his laptop shut, and the instant Dean saw his face he knows that this wasn't about the game.

"Sam."

Sam ignored him, turning on the TV. The channel which had been showing a dumb Western last night now projected a shot of blood-soaked room. For a second Dean thought it was some sort of crime show – until he saw the news emblem at the bottom.

Wordless and grim, Sam flicked through the channels.

"_. . . inexplicable massacre . . ."_

"_. . . federal investigators are baffled . . ."_

"_. . . over six dozen dead . . ."_

"_. . . terrorism . . ."_

"_. . . images may be disturbing to some viewers." _

Sam turned it off.

"You think it's . . . ?" Dean trailed off. Sam was nearly vibrating with tension, face white and jaw clenched, utterly, apoplectically _furious. _Clearly, he knew, or thought he knew, exactly who was responsible.

Sam turned sharply, and the door flew off its hinges. Every light in the room motel sputtered and sparked as he stormed into the office, Dean only pausing to grab his gun as he rushed to follow. He caught up just in time to see Sam seize the demon-possessed clerk by the collar and haul him across the desk with one hand.

"The man who calls himself God. Find him. _Now._"

The demon nodded frantically. It smoked out and Sam dropped the poor bastard it had been riding, who collapsed bonelessly on the floor and stared up at them in gibbering terror.

"Sorry about that," Dean apologized, crouching down while Sam paced back and forth, fuming. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt you."

He felt like he said that a lot these days. At least it was mostly true. Not that it was very convincing when the lights were flickering in time with Sam's growling mutters. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him, back to the sweating, incoherent motel clerk, and sighed.

"Look, I haven't got my wallet on me, but I'll leave some cash when we go. Buy yourself a drink, on us. Forget this ever happened."

Something about that seemed to resonate. The guy tore his eyes away from Sam to look at Dean, and nodded slowly. Dean patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and straightened up again.

"C'mon, Sammy," he said soothingly, taking his brother by the arm and steering him out of the office. "I think we've scared the locals enough."

"There are _rules_," Sam snarled through clenched teeth. "He broke the rules; he broke the fucking _rules_ –"

Every electrical device in sight, probably every one within a five mile radius, was going nuts. (Except in the Impala. Sam's powers never touched her, no matter how upset he was.) Sam's fury was leaking into his eyes, black and shining like an oil spill. Dean hadn't seen him this pissed since one of his demons spat at Dean.

"Easy, man," said Dean, grabbing Sam's shoulders. "Calm the fuck down. You're not gonna solve anything by throwing a temper tantrum."

Sam glared. Dean held his gaze. Sam conceded, taking a breath and relaxing slightly under Dean's hands. His eyes cleared. The parking lot quieted.

"He broke the rules," Sam repeated, but this time it was plaintive, almost a whine. King of Hell or not, right now Sam was all little brother, shoulders hunched, hazel eyes wide and damp. He was hurt and scared, covering for it with anger. Dean had taught him that.

"I know, Sammy."

"I don't want to kill him."

"You won't have to," Dean promised. _Even if I have to do it myself. _

.

The found him, eventually. He was a crumpled form on the floor of a gas station bathroom, a far cry from the distant, unfathomable creature Dean was used to. Sam drops down to shake him awake, only to recoil in horror and disgust.

"They're _souls_," he breathed, eyes wide. "That's where he was getting the power from. He drank in human souls."

Just like that, the anger was back, and before Dean could stop him Sam had surged forward and slapped the man who would have been God across his bloodied face.

Trench Coat opened his eyes, but they were drifting, unfocused. Sam was having none of it. He seized Trench Coat's chin and forced him to meet his eyes.

"Where did you get them? _Where_?"

He received a single word in response, too breathless and choked for Dean to understand. Sam straightened up, face cold and unreadable. Dean had been right to call his earlier outburst a temper tantrum – this, _this _was real anger. Sam was breathing evenly, eerily still; calmly, silently livid. For the first time since he had crawled out of his grave to find him standing blood-soaked and black-eyed above it, Dean was genuinely afraid of his little brother.

"I need to pay someone a visit."

And then Sam was gone, leaving Dean with a trench-coated pile of bone and blood. He muttered an oath, glanced over at the demon which hovered warily in the doorway.

"You got any idea what's wrong with him?"

The demon (who was riding a strawberry blonde, heavily freckled young woman in overalls) shook her head. Dean sighed.

"Fine. Help me get him to the car."

He patched up the most obvious wounds as best he could and then all he could do was sit there, an unconscious Not-God in his backseat and a subservient demon watching from a safe distance away. He cursed Trench Coat, cursed the real God, cursed Sam, cursed the real devil. (Because that was where Sam was, talking to that silver-tongued son of a bitch through the bars of his cage. That was where Sam always went when they needed answers that were beyond them.)

Sam returned, of course. He always did. He looked grim and exhausted, which he also always did. It had only been a couple hours here on the Earthly plane, but who the fuck knew how long it had been down there. Dean wanted to force Sam back to a motel and into bed, but Sam said,

"I know what's going on. I can fix this."

– and Dean couldn't remember when this nameless stranger had become so important to them, to him, but he found himself nodding. After that, everything was a blur of Sam barking orders and demons bringing blood and herbs and Sam painting a sigil on the dingy concrete and Dean was ninety-nine percent sure that the moon shouldn't have looked like that at this time of year –

– and somehow Dean ended up being the one holding Trench Coat in his arms while Sam placed the finishing touches on the ritual, whatever the fuck it was, and then Trench Coat was _shining _–

— and Dean barely had time to register that the light didn't burn before Sam eyes widened –

"Those aren't just souls."

– and then Sam was reaching into the light, _into _the Not-God, grimacing in pain and pulling out handfuls and handfuls of something thick and black and _moving_, and Dean's stomach turned –

— and then, quite suddenly, it was over.

Sam sagged to his knees.

"'M okay," he said weakly, waving Dean off when he made an instinctive move towards him. If Dean had thought he was lying he would have dumped Trench Coat out of his lap and been at his side in an instant, but Sam, surprisingly, did seem okay, beyond his obvious fatigue.

Blue eyes fluttered open. They looked different than before, Dean thought. Warmer. Afraid.

"Hey," Sam greeted tiredly. He frowned a little, as if listening to something they couldn't hear. "You're an angel," he said, like maybe it would have been a revelation if he had the energy.

"Yes," Trench Coat agreed. His voice was rougher than Dean was used to hearing it. "I . . . was. You are human."

"I was," said Sam, with a twisted smile. "My name is Sam, but you probably knew that."

The Not-God – angel – whatever, nodded, pushing himself upright and awkwardly extracting himself from Dean's hold.

"Most every being in heaven knows of you."

Sam shrugged, cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"So, what's your name?"

"My name . . . ?" He looked confused, as if he couldn't remember it. He frowned with the effort of recollection. "My name is . . . Castiel."

"Castiel," Sam repeated, as if he was testing it out. He smiled. "Welcome back, Cas."


	2. The Tragedy

**Chapter Notes: Title comes from the song Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People. The quote about the devil comes from 2 Corinthians 11:14.**

**Chapter Warnings: language, violence, disturbing imagery. **

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Better Run, Better Run

Summary: The way Dean sees it, there are two kinds of tragedies: the ones that are horrible because everyone dies, and the ones that are horrible because everyone _doesn't. _

_._

When Dean got back from Hell (was dragged back), Sam was different. Not just his powers, not just the color of his eyes – _Sam_ was different, cracked somewhere deep inside. It took weeks and fights and a revealing taunt from a demon named Alistair for Dean to figure it out.

Dean didn't know what had happened down there. Sam had made sure of that. But Sam hadn't wiped those memories from Dean's head – he had taken them. Dean didn't remember his time in Hell.

Sam did.

.

"_I don't like it." _

"I don't like it either, Bobby, but, look, it's only rabbits. They can't even interfere directly, it's part of their crazy-ass rules. Sam just like, sends demons to possess government people and shit. No one even gets hurt."

"'_Cept the rabbits."_

Dean gritted his teeth. He was perfectly aware that he was trying to convince himself as much as Bobby that this game between Sam and his new friend was nothing to worry about. He would feel at least a little better about it if he had any idea who and what the trench-coated, blue-eyed stranger who claimed to be God actually was. He would feel lot better if the ridiculously complicated point system was based off of something other than the rabbit population in Montana.

"At least it's not people."

"_That's a pretty low bar you're settin', son." _

"You know what, Bobby?" Dean snapped, gripping the phone with white knuckles. "I don't really give a flying _fuck _about your _standards_. _I'm _the one watching him toss demons around like fucking sock puppets, _I'm_ the one pulling the Colt out of his mouth every other week, and _I _say if Peter Rabbit has to get it to keep Sam from throwing a tantrum and leveling a damn town, _so fucking be it_!"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, long and cold enough for regret to leak into Dean's anger.

"_You done?" _

Dean stayed silent, ducking his head in shame. Most hunters – hell, most sane people – would have cut and run the instant it became clear Sam wasn't quite human anymore, and just about anyone would have backed away slowly when he started shedding screws left and right. Bobby hadn't, and he deserved better from them. From Dean.

"_You've been doin' a good job keepin' him on the rails," _Bobby said, his tone gentling. _"I ain't arguin' with that. And I understand there ain't much you can do once he sets his mind on somethin'. I'm just sayin' you should keep an eye on it, tha's all. It's blood sport, Dean. Pure and simple. Ain't nothin' good gonna come of it." _

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said. (He did not say, _"I know," _even though he did.)"I'll keep you in the loop."

"_Prob'ly better if ya don't,"_ Bobby warned. _"Better all around if I got a bit of plausible deniability." _

"You still got hunters bothering you?" Dean asked, frowning.

"_After what Sam did to the last ones? No." _

Dean flinched, his stomach turning at the memory. There hadn't been enough of Walt and Roy left to even identify them as human, but they had still been screaming.

"_But there ain't a single hunter out there who knows when ta back down, and some of 'em ain't known for their smarts. Sooner or later, one of 'em'll be dumb enough to think gettin' to the King of Hell through me is a good idea." _

"Bobby –" Dean couldn't quite keep the pleading out of his voice. He glanced over his shoulder at the motel room where his little brother was reading or watching TV or letting a hellhound chew his hand to bits because he would heal again in a few minutes and he barely even seemed to register pain anymore or maybe he did and he just didn't care, and Dean couldn't do this, could barely do it with Bobby, definitely couldn't fucking do it _alone _–

"_I'm not sayin' you gotta stop talkin' to me, boy," _said Bobby, with a note of exasperation. _"Just spare me the details, will ya? I don't wanna hear about whatever godforsaken town you're in, anyway." _

Dean snorted. 'Godforsaken.' He wished.

"_You just remember to take care of yerself," _Bobby ordered. _"Sam might be able to go without sleep an' food, but yer still human." _

"Yeah," Dean agreed bitterly, and hung up.

.

Five minutes.

Five. Fucking. Minutes.

Dean resisted the urge to hurl his newly-purchased six-pack into the side of the motel, which was now shuddering on its foundations, their room at the epicenter. His Holy Trench Coat had a knack for showing up when Dean wasn't there. If it weren't for the fact that the Not-God was a _total raging psycho_, Dean might have been offended.

The curtains were open. Dean spared a glance to confirm that they were fucking, not fighting, and then averted his eyes.

There was a bar down the street. He went there.

The bar was busy, a soccer team keeping the bartender from striking up conversation beyond a brisk "What're you having?" Dean was okay with that. He wasn't in the mood to chat. What would he say, anyway? _"I can't go back to my hotel room because my little brother's busy fucking God's bastard."_

Right. Because he really wanted a tour of loony bin, on top of everything else.

By the time he staggered back to the motel, thirty bucks and six drinks later, the place was still and silent again. Sam looked up as he came through the door.

"We need to have a discussion about safe words?" Dean asked, taking in the trashed room, the red smears on the wall, the sheets.

"It's not mine. Well, mostly," said Sam with a quick, sharp smile. There was blood on his teeth. Dean glared at the carpet.

"Yeah, well. Next time try to keep the bodily fluids on your side, will you?"

"Sorry." Sam righted a couple chairs, and said, "There's a new rule."

"Don't care," said Dean, and it was the truth, but the silence began to close in again, so he added, "His Holiness catch onto your hellhound loophole?"

"'His Holiness' means the Pope, Dean."

Dean's throat constricted. That was his whole problem, right there. Not the Pope thing – like he gave a shit – but that Sam corrected him, shot him a look as if he was being stupid on purpose, and kept tidying up like the pedantic, anal-retentive geek he was. Sam was the King of Hell. Sam was powerful, way beyond sporadic death-visions. Sam was _insane._

But Sam was still Sam.

It would have been easier if he wasn't.

"Don't know how you keep track of this shit," Dean said once his voice worked again.

"I don't," Sam answered, placing the Gideon's Bible back in the drawer. "It's getting too complicated. He's assigning someone to referee."

"An angel?"

"Yeah. I said I wanted to meet him; they should be down in about . . . now."

Dean jerked back with a curse. Not-God had appeared in the middle of the room, his hand on the shoulder of a kid who Dean assumed was the angel. The change which came over Sam was palpable, his spine straightening as he took advantage of his full height, the air crackling with power which he usually kept restrained. There was a glint in his eyes like fire on broken glass, burning and jagged.

The angel looked terrified.

(Sam had obliterated Raphael with a thought and a smirk. Michael, he had _shredded_, slowly, piece by shining piece. If Dean had had wings, he would have been a bit nervous, too.)

"This is Samandriel," Not-God said, pushing him forward.

"Samandriel," Sam said, tasting the word. "You're here about our game."

"Y-yes sir."

"Good."

Sam smiled. The angel flinched. Dean looked away.

.

Dean was pretty sure it was just an accident.

Sam and Not-God had managed to whip an entire state into a frenzy. Ecologists and animal rights activists picketed, harassed, vandalized. Hunters (the normal kind) waved their rifles overhead, screaming the second amendment. Preachers and politicians spewed hyperbolic rhetoric on both sides of the issue, ignited with Holy Fire. (_Satan disguises himself as an angel of light._) People were always stupid. Angry, scared people being used as pawns in a game they weren't even aware of? It was only a matter of time before it all blew up in their faces.

So when one of the most vocal members of the local IRA fatally shot his twelve-year-old daughter on a family hunting trip, Dean was pretty sure it was an accident. A tragedy, a horror, the inevitable result of fucking with people for no good reason, but an accident.

Sam, looking at the world though the black sheen which never quite left his eyes, saw it differently.

Not-God had crossed the Rubicon. The rules had changed.

It wasn't about rabbits anymore.

_Blood sport. _

That was one thing to call it. There were others.

_Massacre. _

_Reign of Terror. _

_Sam Sam Sam oh god Sammy what the fuck oh god __**Sam**_

It was a fucking nightmare, was what it was. Dean couldn't stop Sam, couldn't risk driving him away, couldn't do anything but avert his eyes as his little brother snapped human necks with the casual ease of a chess master tipping over pawns. It was a feedback loop of violence and insanity, electric blue and flickering black. Maybe if Dean could get rid of Not-God, break the cycle –

But Sam disappeared for two days, turned back up with an apologetic shrug and his hands stained black. He listened to Dean ream him out while he scrubbed them, inky water spiraling down the drain.

"Had to help a friend with a pest problem," he said, when Dean was done.

"What, he's a _friend_ now?" Dean questioned scathingly, because there was no doubt who Sam was talking about.

"I dunno," Sam said absently, frowning at his hands. "'Enemy with benefits' sounds weird."

Dean elected not to dignify that with a response.

"That stuff," he said instead, nodding in the general direction of the sink. "Would it have killed him?"

"Probably," Sam answered. He picked at the creases of his knuckles, making a face. "As good as, anyway."

"So why didn't you let it?" Dean demanded.

— and then he was airborne, thin wall shuddering as he slammed into, pain searing through his back, terror coursing through his veins as he registered the invisible force that had him pinned, the jet black eyes boring into his –

"Don't. You. Dare." Sam advanced with each furious word, face livid, hand twisting the air and cutting off Dean's.

"S-Sammy –" Dean managed to gasp out, clawing uselessly at his throat. He was horrified, panicking, Sam had never done this before, never turned on him, never so much as acknowledged that he was capable of overpowering him, and god, he had always known Sam would be the death of him –

He collapsed onto the floor, gasping.

Sam stepped backwards, hand dropping back to his side, eyes jerking away. He shook his head, blinked until his eyes were (almost) hazel again. Then, slowly, not meeting his gaze, he reached out a hand to help Dean up.

It wasn't an apology, and Dean didn't take it as such.

He knew a warning when he saw one.

.

The motel was quiet, empty except for the two of them and the currently demon-possessed clerk. It was always like that, these days. Dean had never thought he'd miss the sounds of drunken arguments and illicit sex.

Dean was cleaning the guns. Sam was cleaning his fingernails, rust-red flakes drifting down to settle on the dingy carpet. Bobby had been right about hunters, except this time they hadn't gone after him – they'd gone straight for Dean, instead.

Stupid bastards. Would-be heroes with their holy water and ancient curses, consecrated iron and silver bullets, sitting there waiting for Sam. Sam, who tossed people to hellhounds like treats to golden retrievers. Sam, who fucked with God for shits and giggles. Sam, who had walked straight into Hell and come back out as walking shrapnel, all for the one guy those daring idiots had just beaten and tied to a chair.

If they had gagged Dean a little less tightly, he could have warned them.

Sam was humming. He probably thought it was a tune, and maybe it was, when combined with the Hell chorus in his head. All Dean could hear were stray notes in a minor key, almost a pattern, almost a song. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Dean." Sam cut himself off mid-note, fingers still.

"Yeah?"

"You promised you'd kill me, if something like this happened."

Dean didn't know what Sam had done to the hunters. He hadn't watched, and he didn't ask, didn't even look up.

"I lied."


End file.
